As he headed back to his office, he had a frown on his fleshy face. His so-called partner was what they called a "bagman" in the United States. He was a Mafia thug who showed up once a month from Moscow to collect a percentage of the take, accuse Bulgarin of holding out and threaten to break his legs if he was.
It was inevitable that the Russian Mafia would find a way to get its sticky fingers into the profitable mammoth tusk trade. Business was booming, thanks to the international ban against the sale of ivory from the African elephant herds that had been decimated by hunters. Inhabitants of Yakutsk had a history in the mammoth trade going back hundreds of years, and, with an estimated ten million mammoths buried under the Siberian permafrost, a vast source of material.
Political change had boosted the ivory trade as well. Moscow had always regulated commerce in Yakutsk, and still controlled the diamond and gold business, but the local inhabitants had been trading with the Chinese for two thousand years, and they knew better than anyone how to make money off the bones of ancient, dead giants. The ivory first had to be worked in order to be exported legally under the law, but some distributors, like Bulgarin, ignored the law and sent raw ivory directly to the buyers.
When Moscow stepped out, the Mafia stepped in. The previous year, the cooperative received an unannounced visit from a group of the most frightening men Bulgarin had ever met. They wore black turtlenecks and black leather jackets, and they spoke softly when they said they were becoming partners in the business. Bulgarin was a petty thief, and he rubbed elbows with the more violent elements of the Russian underworld. When these hard men said he and his family needed protection, he knew exactly what they meant. He agreed to the arrangement, and the people from Moscow installed the two guards with machine guns at the door to protect their investment.
Bulgarin was puzzled as well as annoyed at the timing of the visit. As regular as clockwork, his partner showed up on the fourth Thursday of every month. This was the second Wednesday. Despite his annoyance, when he entered his tiny, cluttered office near the entrance to the warehouse he wreathed his face in a broad smile, expecting to see Karpov, the usual representative from Moscow. But the man dressed in the black suit and turtleneck was younger, and, in contrast to Karpov, who stole money with a tough-guy affability, his expression was as cold as Yakutsk on a winter night.
He glared at Bulgarin. "I don't like to be kept waiting."
"I'm very sorry," Bulgarin said, maintaining his smile. "I was at the far end of the warehouse. Is Karpov ill?"
"Karpov is only a money collector. We have serious business. I want you to get in touch with the men on Ivory Island."
"It's not easy."
"Just do it."
Several days before, Moscow had called, and told him to assemble a team of his most hardened ivory hunters and send them to the island. They would find a scientific party working there, and were instructed to hold a woman scientist named Karla Janos. They were to hand her over to a team coming in from Alaska.
"I can try," Karpov said. "The weather-"
"I want you to change their orders. Tell them to take the girl and transport her off the island."
"What about the Americans?"
"Their people are unable to come. They were willing to pay a great deal of money for the job, so she is evidently of some value. We will talk to her, to see what she has to say, and hold her for ransom."
Karpov shrugged. It was typical of the Moscow Mafia. Double cross. Crude and direct.
"What about the other scientists?"
"Tell your men, no witnesses."
A chill ran down Karpov's spine. He was no angel, and had broken a few heads as a young smuggler. Ivory hunting was a cutthroat business. After the Mafia got into ivory hunting, they had recruited men who could be charitably called "scum of the earth." Some of his competitors had conveniently vanished.
At the same time, he was smart enough to know that, as a witness, he too would be in line to be eliminated. He would do as the man said, but his mind was already working on ways to fold his business and leave Yakutsk. He nodded, his mouth dry, and opened a cabinet that housed a state-of-the-art radio.
Within minutes, he had contacted the ivory hunters. Using a carefully crafted code in case someone was listening, he called the leader of his team, a violent man named Grisha, who was a Sakha descendant of the Mongols that had lived as ivory hunters going back hundreds of years. He relayed the instructions. Grisha asked only for clarification to make sure he had heard the order correctly, but otherwise had no questions.
"It's done," he said, replacing the microphone.
The Mafia man nodded. "I will come back tomorrow to make sure."
Karpov wiped the sweat off his brow after the man left. He didn't know which was worse, dealing with the cutthroats from Moscow or the cutthroats who worked for him. What he did know was that his days in Yakutsk were numbered. He would be safe until they brought someone in to replace him, but, in the meantime, he would activate plans made long ago. He had millions of dollars in Swiss bank accounts.
Geneva would be nice. Or Paris or London. The gem business would be profitable.
Anything would be preferable to a Siberian winter.
He smiled. The Mafia may have done him a great favor.
22
Petrov was leaving his office in the drab Moscow government building when his secretary told him he had a telephone call. He was in a foul mood. He had been unable to extricate himself from a diplomatic party at the Norwegian embassy. Norway, for God's sake! Nothing but smoked fish to eat. He planned to get tanked up on vodka and disgrace himself. Maybe they wouldn't invite him back.
"Take a message," he had growled. As he was going out the door, he turned. "Who's on the line?"
"An American," his secretary said. "He says his name is John Doe."
Petrov looked dumbstruck. "You're sure?"
Petrov brushed by his astonished secretary and returned to his office, where he snatched the phone off the desk and stuck it to his ear. "Petrov here," he said.
"Hello, Ivan. I remember when you answered the phone yourself," said the voice on the other end of the line.
"And I remember when you were still named Kurt Austin," Petrov said. His snarl didn't match the gleam of amusement in his eyes.
"Touche, old pal. Still the same old, sharp-tongued KGB apparatchik. How are you, Ivan?"
"I'm fine. How long has it been since the Razov affair?"
"A couple of years, anyway. You said to call if I ever need a favor."
Austin and Petrov had worked together to torpedo the plans of Mikhail Razov, a Russian demagogue who was behind a plot to launch a tsunami against the East Coast by using volatile methane hydrate ocean deposits.
"You're lucky to catch me. I was on my way to a thrilling party at the Norwegian embassy. What can I do for you?"
"Zavala and I need to get to the New Siberian Islands as soon as possible."
"Siberia!" Petrov chuckled. "Stalin is dead, Austin. They don't send people to the Gulag anymore." He glanced around him. "Those who offend their superiors are given a promotion, a title and a large office decorated in atrocious taste, where they are bored to death."
"You've been a bad boy again, Ivan."
"The term doesn't translate into Russian. Suffice it to say that it's never wise to offend one's superior."
"Next time I talk to Putin, I'll put in a good word for you."
"I would appreciate it if you didn't. President Putin is the superior I offended. I exposed a close friend of his who had been embezzling money from an oil company that the government had taken over after arresting its owner. The usual Kremlin follies. I was removed from my intelligence position. I have too many friends in high places, so I couldn't be punished overtly, and instead was placed in this velvet cage. Why Siberia, if I may ask?"